


use you as a focal point

by pertunes



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2016-02-12
Packaged: 2018-05-19 22:54:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5983363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pertunes/pseuds/pertunes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of Jonny/Seabs ficlets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pornstar AU

**Author's Note:**

> This is where I'm putting all of my Jonny/Seabs ficlets/drabbles/whatever because I figure it's nicer than just posting little snippets individually. Most of these verses will probably continue.

Brent drives in and out until one hard squeeze from Jonny punches the breath out of Brent, and he slows, grunting, “Fuck.” He rocks in and out of Jonny at a fraction of the speed he was going, rubs his thumb along the edge of his balls where he’s so soft just to feel him twitch.

He keeps up that motion and looks up Jonny’s body, the long column of his throat that Brent has wanted to turn purple for like, three hours now. His head’s thrown back and his mouth keeps puffing open in silent pants.

The camera guy grunts and Brent looks down. He rubs a palm along the length of Jonny’s thigh, stretching him wide. “Gotta keep this down, baby,” he says. “Let ‘em see how pretty you are.”

Jonny moans and his hand tightens around his cock. It kind of ripples through him, this little quake-shiver that runs down to Brent and he can feel it in his own groin, his gut. He feels his face flush.

He pulls out slowly and spits at Jonny’s hole for good, manly measure, or something.

-

“Yeah? How do you think that went?” Steve asks from behind the camera before Brent has even stopped panting. He leans back from Jonny’s body against the couch, wipes the sweat off his brow.

“Phew,” he says. He kind of—he feels like he just got his insides taken out. Like he lost something. Or gave it away. Brent laughs; the viewers love the behind-the-scenes bits. “That was good. Really good.”

He rubs at Jonny’s knee where he’s still got his legs spread. Kid’s still twitching a little, and Brent kind of wants to ask for them to hold up, give him a minute, but. The viewers love it.

“How do you think he did, Brent, for one of his first scenes?”

The camera’s on both of them but Jonny’s looking at the ceiling, still coming down. Someone’ll have to break him of that, but Brent can’t stop running his eyes over his body. “No, he was great. Quite the talent,” Brent laughs again, slaps a good-job-hand onto his thigh and Jonny huffs out a laugh, swallows hard.

“What do you say you go start the shower?” Steve asks, all smug in his voice. “And I’ll stay out here and talk to Jonny.”

“Yeah, I’ll be waiting for him,” Brent says, gives him one more thigh slap to go, and knows he’s fucked the second he wishes he was herding Jonny into the shower instead of leaving him on the couch with a camera man.


	2. Jonny and Seabs in the summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summer is too good to Jonny. Some post-yoga sex.

Summer is too good to Jonny.

When Seabs finally gets to catch up on the books his mom likes to send him and watch baseball until he’s asleep drooling in front of the TV, Jonny is usually out somewhere at a new veggie place, fro-yoing it up, coming back to their place buzzing and tanned and stupidly sunglassed.

Except after yoga.

After-yoga is possibly Seabs’ favorite time of the week. Of the summer. Jonny foregoes all his teenager sleeping habits and gets up really early when the sun starts to stream across their bed and he makes them breakfast, leaving half in the fridge for Seabs.

Seabs listens to him putter around the house and grab all of his things, struggling with his shoes and dropping his keys, energy that will be turned into something different when he’s on his mat, and then later, when he comes back home.

He dozes for a while longer until the garage has long since closed and he makes his way to the kitchen for mediocre microwaved eggs and bacon, because if there is anything to be said about living with Jonny, it’s that he still can’t cook very well.

He lounges on the couch after, sifting through the DVR for something he can actually catch up on and pay attention to. The sun keeps flitting through the blinds, making warm spots on the floor, his legs, the pillows, and he fights sleep a little.

Jonny comes home halfway into Seabs’ last episode of The Walking Dead, putting his shoes up where they belong and walking carefully into the living room where Seabs is.

He goes through a weird series of stretches he probably doesn’t need to do, but what does Seabs know, watching him out of the corner of his eye. He’s in his nice warm-up leggings, the ones that dispel heat, and some anciently soft band shirt from who-knows-when, Seabs doesn’t know the last time Jonny went to a concert.

Jonny’s doing something ridiculous with his legs. His pants are curving over his ass whenever he leans this way or that, his shirt riding up so Seabs can see where days on the boat have been working on him, lean and dark and soft.

Jonny stretches his arms over his head, revealing his belly button and the curve of his stomach that stops at the top of his leggings, just above where his hair starts, and Seabs is so struck by that soft spot of skin he feels kind of dumb about it. He turns the TV to Food Network and then sets it to record because he might have time to make that pasta later.

When he looks over again, Jonny’s on the other sofa, his legs easily folded beneath himself because he wants to show off how flexible he is right now. He leans back and starts rolling his neck, arching his back something dirty, and Seabs chucks the remote and stomps on over.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

Jonny brings his head back slowly, like he’s a little buzzed, smile spreading across his smug face. Sometimes Seabs wants to go back and introduce nineteen-year-old Jonathan Toews to yoga just so the kid can feel his body really relax for once. And maybe also so that he can make these kinds of faces at Seabs.

“’m having fun,” Jonny says innocently, like people in outer space couldn’t tell he was down here showing off his ass in those leggings that drive Seabs out of his mind.

“Yeah, I can see that, little shit,” Seabs says, and Jonny laughs, wide open and easy, and that’s one of Seabs’ favorite parts of after-yoga.

The other is when Jonny is loose enough that he can get him flat on his back, shamelessly naked in their bed, and lick down past his balls and his taint and get his tongue inside him until he’s the one going nuts, grabbing at the sheets and grinding back at Seabs like he never does, hair mussed up from the bed.

Seabs gets him off slowly with his tongue and a couple of fingers and Jonny comes easily with a loud gasp, clutching at Seabs’ arm. Afterward, after Seabs has come and Jonny’s thighs stop shaking, they finally get their nap, and Seabs gets Jonny, back in their bed, peacefully asleep with the sunlight ghosting over his shoulders.


	3. College AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jonny doesn’t meet Brent until the third week of school because Brent is, self-admittedly, kind of bad at the RA stuff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the college AU I never wanted to write but started to anyway. Brent is Jonny's RA and assume he is a senior while Jonny is a freshman, if that wigs anyone out. Lots of dumb college boys drinking. I'm sure more of this will be written.

Jonny doesn’t meet Brent until the third week of school because Brent is, self-admittedly, kind of bad at the RA stuff.

“Did you say Campbell?” Jonny yells. The guy he’s talking to winces but Shawzy’s music is louder than a jet engine and they are, under no circumstances, to turn it down.

“Yeah!” the guy yells back. “Third floor RA!”

“Oh!” Jonny says, and freezes, booze slowing his thought process. “Oh, dude, you’re my RA!”

“No way!” His face splits open in a grin and Jonny finds himself matching it. The guy holds out his hand for Jonny to shake. “I’m Brent.”

“I’m Jonny.” He thinks the beer is helping in not wiping the stupid smile off his face, but whatever. Jonny’s mom said to make friends, and he is.

Shawzy, pain in the ass that he is, nearly gets him in a chokehold as he swings his arm around Jonny’s shoulder, stumbling into him and Brent. “Why aren’t you drinking?” he shouts over his own music.

Jonny blinks. “There’s literally a full beer in my hand,” he says.

“Exactly,” Shawzy slurs. “ _Full_. Drink up, Toews.” He goes up on his toes to give Jonny a kiss and a slap on his cheek before he bounces off, leaving Jonny staring wide-eyed in the middle of the room.

Brent left at some point during the interaction and Jonny doesn’t see him again for the rest of the night until he’s leaving with a group, some pretty-eyed guy hanging off his shoulder to help him walk.  Shawzy claps Jonny on the back with some sort of knowing waggle of his eyebrows and sends him on his way, stumbling through campus back to his room.

-

Brent’s best friends are two seniors named Duncan Keith and some guy who insists that Jonny call him Sharpy, and he does, for the first two weeks that he knows him, and then he learns that his real name is Patrick.

“He’s one of your charges, right, Seabs?” Sharpy asks over dinner one night. The table’s stacked with dining hall plates and trays and there are more people around it than Jonny’s been introduced to.

Brent’s got a mouthful of spaghetti and he grunts an affirmative.

“Seabs?” Jonny asks.

“Seabrook,” Brent says with his mouth full. “Seabs. Seabsie boy. ‘S my last name.”

“Seabiscuit,” Duncs says very seriously, nodding intensely at Jonny, and it’s the first thing he said since they sat down to eat. He’s perpetually posted at Brent’s side and Jonny doesn’t know if that like, _means_ something or if it means nothing, and he’s not good enough friends with them to start throwing around questions like that.

Jonny nods slowly, adding it to the growing list of nicknames he’s been learning. Across the table, Shawzy stares suspiciously at a forkful of goulash.

“How _do_ you eat this shit?” he asks them.

“We’re actually fed,” Brent—Seabs, Jonny remembers, says, and then grossly gulps down his food before continuing, “really well here. Like, way better than what they get at Northern.”

Sharpy points his fork at Seabs. “He only says that shit because he eats for free,” he tells Jonny. “If you were thinking about being an RA, kid, this is the bounty you have to look forward to.”

Seabs rolls his eyes. “You never complained when you lived here.”

“I did,” Sharpy says only to Jonny, and then he puts his arm around him to pull him in close. “If you get sick off the food here, we could make a killing. I know a guy.”

-

Jonny’s super grateful his parents dished out for a single room after he kind of wigged out at the prospect of sharing a squad, but he is counting down the days until community showers aren’t a thing he’ll have to face. He shared with Davey when they were younger and then got crammed in with other guys on travel teams and hockey clinics, but the last year of high school he got super picky about his laundry and night time routines, to his mother’s frustration.

The showers, though, are just a row of double stalls, one for privacy and one with a shower head and barely two feet of space, and most guys just strip before they step behind the curtain, or come in barely wearing anything at all.

Jonny’s cool with it. He wanted to come for the whole college experience and he’s getting it. He just wishes it meant fewer cold showers with his eyes squeezed shut, willing his hard-on away.

-

College football isn’t really Jonny’s thing, or anyone he knows’ thing for that matter, but that doesn’t mean they can’t participate in the whole tailgating thing. The night before a game. On a Thursday.

Jonny finds himself in Sharpy’s grabby hands seconds after he walks into the house, a cup shoved into his own.

“Jonny,” Sharpy squints at him. “Jonny, tell me. Do you even drink?”

Jonny’s already downed half the glass but he hears a familiar voice over the din of the party, slurring and rough, and he feels himself go kind of stupid for it.

“Does he drink,” Seabs scoffs. “He’s fucking Canadian.”

“ _Canadian?_ ” Sharpy loses his mind right then and there and proceeds to drag Jonny to the keg, teeming with excitement, while Jonny tries not to fall over his feet over the fact that Seabs remembered.

He plays way too many rounds of quarters with Duncs, who somehow wins every time, and Jonny knows he’s flushed from alcohol and angry at losing, familiar petulant competition rising in his chest.

Duncs abandons him staring forlornly at the shitty card table until Saader comes up and holds the last cup out to him, making eyes. “Come on,” he says. “Do it for your—fuckin’ queen.”

“I’m a queen,” Shawzy says, entering from God knows where to plop on the floor. Jonny downs the rest of the drink. He tries to read the clock on Sharpy’s gross stove but the numbers keep moving around.

“Fuck,” someone says emphatically, and before Jonny can see who there’s an arm draped over his shoulders, whiskey-breath blowing into his face.

“Do you have Friday classes?” Seabs’ face is all but two inches from Jonny’s, flooded with drunken concern, and _fuck_ , Jonny has the lecture from hell tomorrow and he was probably supposed to leave this party an hours ago.

Sharpy comes wandering into the room after him, holding onto the wall. “Do not even think about it, Seabs,” he says. “We paid our dues.”

“They’re _babies_ ,” Seabs says, with a level of sincerity most drunk young adults can only aspire to have. “Saader, you, you too. Let’s go.”

“Mm,” Saader says from somewhere near Jonny’s knee. He’s joined Shawzy on the floor. “We’re drinking water,” he says, and they all watch possibly one of the most tender moments of all time as he props Shawzy up and tilts the cup to his lips, making sure he doesn’t choke.

“Okay,” Seabs nods seriously.

“Serious—Seriously,” Sharpy whines, “You’re seriously going.”

Seabs’ hand twitches on Jonny’s shoulder and Jonny clasps his own around it, because he can. “I’m his res—resident. I’m his,” Seabs stutters. “I’m his fuckin’ guy. I gotta be his guy.”

Jonny goes warm down to his toes. He thinks he’s probably glowing. He holds onto Seabs’ hand tighter.

Sharpy squints at them one last time before he sends them off with a, “Watch for cops, you assholes.”

It’s definitely not one of his more notable walks home, because Seabs won’t let him stop to see if he can climb a tree or piss in the bushes no matter how bad he says he has to go, but Jonny’s going to count it as one because it’s Seabs and he left the party and he’s walking Jonny home.

The second Seabs turns the key in the lock of Jonny’s door, he tumbles onto the floor in a flurry of sneakers and dirty clothes. Seabs hauls his ass up and Jonny doesn’t think he could move if he wanted to, dizzy each time he closes his eyes.

He pushes his face into the pillow and groans, waiting for it to pass. There’s a clink as Seabs sets a glass of water next to him and Jonny winces, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Don’t throw up,” he hears, and then maybe imagines the barest touch of a hand pressing at his forehead, and then his door shuts.

He doesn’t miss his lecture in the morning but he does have to throw up halfway through it.

-

One, they start drinking at 3 o’clock on a Friday (“we’re seniors,” Sharpy says plainly whenever Jonny asks why they do what they do) and Jonny is languid and relaxed by 5, touchy and overly-talkative by 7. He stumbles home in the early evening, avoiding flocks of other kids with what he knows is a dumb smile on his face, and he flops onto his bed as soon as he gets in, clumsily thumbing at his cell phone. He thinks about how he misses his mother’s French.

He worriedly tells her he can’t find his phone and they’re gonna be so pissed if he needs a new one and he hears her laugh, remembers her softly saying, “Dormir, Jonathan. Je t’aime.”

-

Just before American Thanksgiving break, Sharpy breaks up with his girlfriend of four years and everything sort of grinds to a halt. Jonny liked Abby. She was sweet and funny every time he saw her at a party, and she put up with Sharpy, so he just liked her.

No one tells him how it went down but he gets an emergency text from Duncs to come to Sharpy’s and to bring his cheapest, strongest alcohol. He opens the door just as Shaw is leaving and he makes a horrified face at Jonny.

“Good luck,” he tells Jonny in the least helpful voice and claps him on the shoulder. Jonny’s sure he’s giving some sort of desperate look as he leaves him there on the doorstep. There are awful noises coming from inside and even worse music, and Jonny finally brings himself to enter and commences his first experience with sad-drunk Sharpy, and no one is happy about it.

They’re crowded into Sharpy’s little bedroom, Duncs’ huge ass monopolizing all the beanbags and good seating, passing very gross whiskey around. After Shawzy and Sharpy’s roommate Nik, Saader has to beg off early to go see his own girl before midnight. “’m sorry, Sharpy,” he winces, like he’s ripping off a band aid.

Sharpy just squints and tilts a shot glass toward him. “Go get ‘em, Saader,” he says, like he knows what he’s talking about.

And it leaves Jonny and Duncs alone with a miserable Sharpy, getting worse by the second.

“Give me that,” Jonny grabs for the bottle and takes a couple swigs. Sharpy stares and nods ominously.

Duncs starts patting down his pockets. “I gotta,” he says, gesturing to the door, and Jonny feels a little betrayed that he’s choosing this moment to go light up, but slightly hopeful he’ll get an SOS out to Seabs, because this night is only going to end in tears or serious injury.

“’S just like,” Sharpy starts in as soon as Duncs shuts the door, and _oh Christ,_ Jonny thinks. “Like, this shit isn’t permanent, ya know? ‘S not supposed to last. I met her fuckin’ first day of f-freshman year.” He levels himself up to Jonny’s eye-line. “ _Years_ , Jonny.”

“I know,” Jonny nods stupidly.

“Fuckin’ kids. Shit isn’t supposed to last.” Sharpy stumbles back and lets his couch catch him, plopping so heavily it’s like all his strings have been cut. The ring box he’s been throwing around since Jonny met him falls out of the edge of his pocket next to him in some sick show of symbolism, and Jonny watches his red-rimmed eyes follow it, hears him make a noise he didn’t know six feet of hockey player could make.

Something burns in Jonny’s gut and it isn’t the whiskey. “You’re drunk,” he tells Sharpy, more desperately than he’d like.

“Yeah,” Sharpy says quietly, and tugs the bottle back from Jonny’s hands.

Sharpy does cry. Seabs finally shows up when they’re wrestling his phone away because “I didn’t break up with _her mom_ ,” and he gets Sharpy on the ground and then the tears start flowing. Jonny falls asleep in the bathtub after the first round of puking and wakes up with a blanket covering him.


End file.
